A Death in Rajgarh

The bells of Rajgarh Palace tolled at dusk, their deep, resonant chimes rolling through the city like the echoes of a long-forgotten prophecy. For centuries, those bells had only rung for two reasons—either to herald the birth of a king or to mourn his passing. Tonight, the air was thick with mourning.

In the heart of the ancient city, people froze mid-step. The shopkeepers in the bustling bazaar stopped haggling over silk and spices. The chai vendors abandoned their boiling kettles, their hands hovering over cups that would never be filled. Conversations dwindled into whispers, then into silence, as a single, terrifying truth settled over Rajgarh like a funeral shroud.

The Maharaja was dead.

Inside the Palace

The grandeur of Rajgarh Palace had never felt so hollow. Ornate chandeliers dripped with diamonds and gold, casting fractured light over the marbled floors. Towering portraits of past kings lined the long corridors, their oil-painted eyes following the living with silent judgment. And yet, for all its opulence, the palace felt… empty.

Prince Aryan Singh stood in the center of the grand hall, his fists clenched so tightly his nails cut into his palms. He had returned from a business trip in Delhi just this morning, only to find his world unraveling by nightfall.

His father—Maharaja Vikram Singh, the man who had ruled Rajgarh with an iron will and unwavering authority—was dead.

A heart attack, they said. Sudden. Unexpected.

Aryan’s dark eyes burned with unshed rage as he turned toward Dr. Kulkarni, the family physician, who stood rigidly near the staircase. The old man’s white coat was wrinkled, his forehead damp with sweat. He looked uneasy, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he clutched a folder close to his chest.

"He was fine this morning," Aryan said, his voice like the crack of a whip. "I spoke to him before I left for my meeting. He was fine."

Dr. Kulkarni swallowed. "It—it was very sudden, Your Highness. His heart stopped before we could do anything."

Aryan exhaled sharply through his nose. He wanted to believe it. He really did. But something about the way Kulkarni hesitated—about the way he refused to meet Aryan’s gaze—unsettled him.

Across the hall, Maharani Sudha let out a strangled sob, gripping a silk handkerchief as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. She had always been the quiet, dutiful queen, standing in the shadow of her husband’s legacy. But tonight, she looked fragile—like a porcelain doll teetering on the edge of a shelf.

It was Rajmata Devyani who broke the silence.

"This is neither the time nor place for questions," she said, her voice sharp as the cut of a blade. Though she was past seventy, there was nothing weak about her presence. Draped in an immaculate white saree, her silver hair coiled in a bun, she carried herself with the authority of a queen who had never truly surrendered her throne.

Aryan turned to face her. "You expect me to just stand here and accept that my father—who had no prior heart issues—just dropped dead out of nowhere?" His voice was laced with fury, but Devyani remained unmoved.

"I expect you to behave like the crown prince of Rajgarh," she said coolly. "And that means keeping your emotions in check."

A muscle in Aryan’s jaw twitched. He wanted to argue. He wanted to demand answers, shake the truth out of Kulkarni, tear apart the palace if he had to. But Devyani’s gaze pinned him in place, a silent command echoing between them.

Not here.

Not now.

"Upstairs," she said, her tone leaving no room for discussion. "We will discuss this in private."

Without another word, she turned and glided toward the grand staircase, her ivory saree trailing behind her like a whisper of ghosts. The rest of the family followed—Sudha clutching the edge of her son’s sleeve, Kulkarni walking stiffly behind them, and Aryan striding up the stairs with his mind burning with questions.

The palace doors had been shut to the public, the gates guarded by armed men. But outside, beyond the high walls, the city of Rajgarh remained awake—waiting, watching, whispering.

A king had fallen.

And the battle for his throne was about to begin.

Upstairs - The Maharaja’s Private Chambers

The doors to Vikram Singh’s study had always been kept locked. It was the one place in the palace where no one—not even Aryan—was allowed without permission. Tonight, however, the doors stood open.

Inside, a large four-poster bed lay untouched, its silk sheets still crisp, as if the Maharaja had never returned to it. The bookshelves, lined with ancient texts and leather-bound ledgers, remained undisturbed. Nothing was out of place. Nothing except—

Aryan’s eyes landed on the glass of whiskey sitting on his father’s desk. The liquid was still in it, untouched.

"Where was he found?" Aryan asked, turning toward Dr. Kulkarni.

The doctor hesitated. "In the reading chair. He had been working late."

Aryan’s frown deepened. His father had been an insomniac for as long as he could remember, but he never—never—drank before midnight. The fact that the whiskey remained untouched… it didn’t sit right.

"What exactly did he say before he—"

A sudden voice cut through the room.

"He didn’t say anything," Devyani interrupted, walking toward the window. "Because he died alone."

Aryan stiffened. "What?"

The Rajmata clasped her hands behind her back. "Your father dismissed his attendants early tonight. No one was with him when he passed."

Aryan’s stomach twisted. Vikram Singh was a man of routine—one who never dismissed his attendants early. He worked late, yes, but there were always people around him. Someone to fetch his tea. Someone to take his notes. Someone to make sure he wasn’t alone.

So why had he sent them all away?

Before Aryan could voice the question, there was a sharp knock on the door.

A palace aide stepped inside, his forehead damp with sweat. He bowed quickly, but his voice trembled when he spoke.

"The lawyers have arrived, Your Highness," he said. "They’re ready to read the Maharaja’s will."

A hush fell over the room.

Sudha inhaled sharply. "So soon?"

"His Majesty had already prepared everything," the aide replied. "The will is… quite clear."

Aryan exchanged a glance with Devyani. Something about this felt too orchestrated—too swift. A father dies, and within hours, his final wishes are about to be revealed?

Devyani turned toward the aide. "Where will it be read?"

"In the main hall," he answered. "Before the entire royal council."

Aryan exhaled slowly, his mind racing. His father had ruled Rajgarh with an iron will—one that had never wavered, not even with his own family. Whatever was in that document, whatever final decree Vikram Singh had left behind…

It was about to change everything.

"Let’s go," Devyani said.

Without another word, the family left the study and descended the stairs.

Tomorrow, the kingdom would awaken to a new era.

But tonight?

Tonight, the battle for the throne would begin.

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